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Night Thoughts

By Margaret Gibson Poetry

They’re on the move again, across the soundless moonlit snow, five deer single file along the narrow trail they deepen night after night with their heart-shaped hooves. Shivering, I watch them. Back in bed, in flannel up to my nose, I listen and listen. In my mind already the pipes have frozen and burst, water…

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Daybreak, Winter

By Betsy Sholl Poetry

Now light fills the tree outside our window— tree whose fruit, when it comes, only the birds, and just a few of them, want to eat, tree that turns stiff and dry midsummer, rushing the season, so we fear the city will come and butcher it, though so far it’s been spared because in spring…

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Winter Mother

By Ava Leavell Haymon Poetry

We’ve left the crib, the family animals, the unstable first trinity. Forgiven the all night journeys made in haste, the rough beds, the secrets and baffling dreams. Since our father left us, his words in our ears orate a baritone poetry, wild and strong enough to hold the yes and the no. Again the sun…

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Snow before Sleep: A Reflection in Winter

By Carolyne Wright Poetry

You must desire Nothing. —————Saint John of the Cross Light glows off the drifts like a child’s long gaze upwards. Only the sky is heavy, a drum full of laundry—white, reluctantly tumbling. I don’t need to look out the window to know how the corners of houses give themselves away, like people who’d do anything…

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Dinka Bible

By Adrie Kusserow Poetry

One morning after the crucifixion, a Sudanese boy came to see his mother and father. He found his hut burnt to the ground. Two figures dressed in white asked him, “Boy why are you weeping?” “Because,” he replied, “they have taken away my family, and I do not know where they have laid them.” The…

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Working in Metal

By Alice Friman Poetry

Bernheim Forest Today’s forest floor, a terrazzo of copper leaf. The remaining scrub also copper: copper breath, penny breath, too faint to call it rustling. The mother trees of summer— those iron lungs—streamed oxygen from paps that swayed sweet rock-a-byes in green blouses. But now all is brittle air. Underfoot snap and crack. And all…

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Advent, First Frost

By Anya Silver Poetry

Something has descended    like feathered prophecy.          Someone has offered the world    a bowl of frozen tears, has traced the veins and edges    of leaves with furred ink.          The staff is stiff as the strings    of a lute. And, day by day, the tiny windows   …

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